


Love Notes

by notjustmom



Series: "My universe is my eyes and my ears." [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Angst, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, M/M, Occasional fluff, christmas in july
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-08
Updated: 2018-08-11
Packaged: 2019-06-07 11:36:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 9,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15218303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notjustmom/pseuds/notjustmom
Summary: The second part of "My universe is my eyes and my ears..."





	1. John - December

**Author's Note:**

> This is somewhat of an experiment, as all of my work is, but this is definitely more of a rough draft than most of my other pieces... so I hope you will follow along patiently while this bit comes to life, hopefully.

December 14 -

Love -

You have fallen asleep in your chair again, though you know it is terrible for your leg, and you will be grumpy tomorrow morning...

 

It had been six months.

Six insane, brilliant, astonishing months, and John couldn't recall ever being so content, and loved. He opened the cupboard they shared and realised he still had most of his clothes folded and packed away in his duffel bag. There was space for him, but he was afraid to believe this, what, arrangement(?) they had come to could ever be permanent. He had thought that eventually Sherlock would tire of the nightmares, the meetings, the regular routines for eating and yes, even sleeping that John needed to stay clean. But to his surprise, Sherlock had found a way to weave John nearly seamlessly, into his life. Of course, Sherlock had his own habits, for a lack of a better word that most people would find a bit off-putting if John wasn't, well, John. It was time, past time for John to unpack, to finally fully accept that Sherlock wanted him to stay. He took out the clothes from the duffel, claimed his set of drawers, then wondered where he should stash his bag. The upstairs bedroom was too close. Ah. 221C... Mrs. Hudson had said he was more than welcome to store anything he wanted to, though she hadn't been at all surprised to see what little belongings he had when they had come back that afternoon.

"Boys? Oh, John! You will be staying then, he must be so pleased," she whispered as they both watched Sherlock take the stairs a couple at a time. 

"I hope so -" John muttered under his breath.

"Oh, he is, dear. I know you don't know him very well yet, but I haven't seen him this happy since his last locked door murder."

"That's the bar, hmm?" John smiled at her and blushed a bit as she kissed his cheek, then winked at him before she went into her flat and closed the door behind her.

 

He grabbed the bag, made sure he had his keys, then headed towards the door, pausing to check on Sherlock who was stretched out on the couch deep in thought on a case. Still breathing, apparently. He grinned down at him, then went down the stairs, fished out his keys, and opened the padlock on 221C. 

He switched on the light and whistled as he looked inside. There were trunks, stacks of boxes, chairs, lamps, even a grandfather clock, and was that a pheasant under glass sitting on a table? Then he spotted the wall to wall bookcases that covered the walls, books, so many books. Some were recent, obviously leftovers of Mrs. Hudson's, or of previous tenants, but others were old, possibly from the Victorian Era. He rubbed his eyes and sneezed. He quickly found a place for his duffel on a bottom shelf, then stood up slowly, Of course he was curious, who did these older books belong to? He pulled out one particularly interesting looking volume and was surprised to find how light it was, until he opened it. He had never seen anything like it before, it had been a book in a former incarnation, but someone had carefully carved out the center of the book and replaced the pages with a packet of envelopes, tied together with a ribbon, still deep purple - no, not purple... aubergine, how did he know that? He could tell from the quality of the paper and the old scent - he didn't know how else to describe it, leather, tobacco, and something else he couldn't place, that they could be close to one hundred and fifty years old, maybe even older. He blinked, sneezed once more, then slipped the envelopes back into the book, and somewhat absentmindedly, tucked the book under his arm, and walked over to the door, opened it, turned off the light, and closed, then padlocked the door again, pausing for a moment, then shivered suddenly and flew up the stars as he found he needed to be back in their flat, curled up next to Sherlock. Perhaps a fire tonight, it was nearly Christmas, and the snow was beginning to fall again.

 

"...sometimes I wonder, dear friend, how long I will have to gaze upon your countenance in this way... not long, I suppose... but perhaps I am simply exhausted myself and being fanciful..."


	2. Sherlock - December

December 9 -

John - 

We are almost out of, or need:

milk  
a new scrub brush, better make that two  
jam  
peas (I used the bag that was in there on my eye this afternoon, don't ask)  
Jaffa cakes  
choc biscuits  
bread

added later with a different pen:

bleach, lots of bleach  
new mop

I love you. xx  
-S


	3. John - December

He sighed as he sat down in his chair and pulled off his boots, and put them in front of the fireplace, the fire had gone out hours earlier. Sherlock's coat was hanging up on the back of his chair. Completely dry to the touch. Hadn't gone out today. Not a good sign. Oh, right, Molly was going to drop off something, what was it this time? Intestines? A bit of liver? At least he had something to focus on, it had been a week since his, no, their last case. He needed to write up that one. Tea. He got up from his chair and wandered into the kitchen, switched on the kettle, then looked over at the fridge and saw Sherlock's latest missive...

John - 

We are almost out of, or need:

milk (what else is new?)

a new scrub brush, better make that two (can't wait to hear the story...)

jam (what does he do with it all?)

peas (I used the bag that was in there on my eye this afternoon, don't ask) (Idiot)

Jaffa cakes (at least he eats something, when I'm at the surgery)

choc biscuits (ditto)

bread 

 

added later with a different pen:

bleach, lots of bleach (how many bottles did he use?)

new mop (not sure I want to know the story)

I love you. xx (I love you.)  
-S

 

added by John:

tea

lamb

potatoes

t.p.

eggs

packet of curry

onions

pickles

 

John shook his head as the kettle whistled, it had been a long day. Sherlock hadn't tried to stop him from taking the hours at the surgery, it was just a couple of shifts a week. John knew they were just trying him out, he hadn't expected a call back after the interview, but they had given him a chance. He switched off the kettle, turned off the light and went to their bedroom. As usual, Sherlock was sprawled across their bed, his porcelain skin shimmering from the moonlight that filtered through the curtain. John undressed, then climbed into the space Sherlock had left. He leaned over him and buried his nose in the still damp curls, still smelling slightly of bleach.

"Hmpppphhh...?" Sherlock shifted, then pulled John into his arms, as he always did, then tangled their legs together, and snorted. 

Even in his sleep, Sherlock reaches for me, and settles again, as if I am simply an extension of him, as he is of me. When did that happen, exactly?


	4. Sherlock - December

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *** MH = Molly Hooper in this case ***

December 16 - 

W -

I don't know why I keep writing to you...

 

What is he hiding from me? - SH

How do you know he's hiding something? - MH

Never mind. Maybe he's bought you a Christmas present? - MH

Christmas. - SH

You know, holiday, associated with elves, especially the big jolly one, reindeer, tacky sweaters, gingerbread biscuits, mistletoe? - MH

He's going to expect something. - SH

No, he isn't, he has lived with you for half a year. - MH

Six months, 1 wk and 5 days. - SH

But who's counting. - MH

Don't you have work to do? - SH

You texted me, remember? - MH

What do I get for him? - SH

You know him, know what he likes. I do have work to do. - MH

You're at lunch. - SH

Yup. And now I'm not. - MH

Don't worry, just get him a jumper or a new mug. - MH

Don't think too hard. How's the eye? - MH

Fine. Thanks. - SH

 

Sherlock slipped his phone into his pocket, and covered his right eye, then his left. It didn't hurt anymore, it was just stupid. He had been in the middle of an experiment a week ago, something involving heat and eyeballs, probably not a great idea anyway, but he was bored, and he had all those eyes in the freezer... but then Molly showed up with the liver and, well, with John working - no, you can't blame him for his lapse. John needed to work, he knew it, better than anyone, if you can't do the work you were meant to do, it wears on you, so he suggested that he try the surgery down the street, it was one he referred his Irregulars to, he almost made a call to the woman who ran it, but he wanted John to earn the right on his own merits; he was vastly overqualified, he'd probably be bored out of his mind within an hour, but he had seen John's face when they called him for an interview, one of their docs had just left on Maternity Leave, so they had a couple of shifts open, if he were still interested. 

"I don't have to." John had said quietly after he ended the call.

"You want to."

"I just want to see if I can - the tremor won't matter at a GP. I won't be giving shots, just doing physical exams, prescribing meds, my handwriting was atrocious before..."

"When?"

"Tomorrow morning."

"Good, then we have all day..."

 

On the back of a Tesco receipt, undated, left on the kitchen table, now tucked into John's wallet behind his old military ID:

 

J -

You got this. xxxxx

\- S

 

"Christmas. His jumpers are worn, I could go to my tailor - no... Harrods, at least they'd be off the rack, and socks... he needs socks. And a mug." Sherlock blinked and looked around the room hoping John hadn't walked into the flat while he'd been talking to himself. No. Seemed he was still at the library. Why the library? No. NOPE.

 

... I'll never give these to you, I suppose I'm writing these for myself... - H


	5. John - December

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the brevity, my computer died yesterday, hoping I will be back at an actual keyboard tomorrow...

The flat was dark and quiet, too quiet for John's comfort. Sherlock wasn't on the couch, or the bedroom, he wasn't anywhere in the house. Coat was gone, and his boots, at least he was wearing his boots. Why hadn't he texted - damn. My phone. I turned it off in the library - hell.

 

Got a case - S

Join me if you want to, probably nothing as usual. - S

Let me know you're okay. - S

Love you - S

 

The last one was sent hours ago. Bloody hell. He was about to pull on his boots again, when he heard voices slowly coming up the stairs.

"I can do it."

"Right. Up you get, just a couple more steps."

John switched on the lamp, then opened the door. "Bloody hell, Sherlock. What happened?"

"Yer home. See told ya, he'd be home, no need to worry, Gavin."

Greg rolled his eyes as he dropped Sherlock gingerly onto the couch. "Bit of a concussion, probably, didn't realise there was another guy - wouldn't go to hospital. Everything okay? I mean, none of my business, but, the two of you, usually two peas in a pod..."

"I was at the library, lost track of time, forgot to turn my phone on -"

"Right... Like I said, none o' my business... He was a bit out of sorts..."

"It's a Christmas present."

"I see. Uhm. No, I don't, but, like I said... just take care of him, yeah?"

"I will. Did he get him?"

Greg grinned at him. "Course he did." He nodded at Sherlock who was nearly asleep on the couch. "He's the best. I'll come by in a couple of days, to see how he's doing, yeah?"

"Thanks."

John knelt next to the couch, unsure of what he could say to make it up to him. Sherlock mumbled without opening his eyes, "'Tis alright, I just missed you." Then he reached out his hand and ruffled John's hair. "Not used to worrying about someone, I'll get better at it. Just give me some time?" His hand dropped to rest on John's shoulder, and he fell fast asleep.

"...you are infinitely patient with me, with my demands, my oddities and my moods, I only hope one day you will know of my deep and true regard..." H to W, December 1889


	6. Sherlock - December

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still computerless, but found an old tablet and got it to work well enough; managed to have a dream about these boys, so on we go...

Why does my head hurt? He ran his fingers through his hair and hissed as he felt the rather substantial bump on the back of his head. Right. Wall. John. Where was John?

He sighed as he felt gentle fingers along his jaw, then move cautiously to his hairline. After six months, he knew the fingers nearly as well as he knew his own, each scar, callus and freckle had been committed to memory weeks ago. He laid his own bruised hand lightly over John's, stopping the examination. He opened his eyes as slowly as possible, then blinked as he saw John turn away, as if ashamed. "Don't."

"I should have been there."

"I don't need a keeper, I've been doing this on my own long before I met you, and I'll be doing it long after -"

"Long after -?"

"Your clothes are still in your duffel, so it's easy for you to leave -"

"I unpacked it a couple of days ago, and put the bag in 221C, I thought the other bedroom was too close." John moved his fingers to touch Sherlock's cut bottom lip, then kissed him lightly. "You see, I wasn't sure, I didn't think - no one else has ever had so much patience with me, and honestly I was waiting for you to be bored with me."

"Bored?" Sherlock groaned as he moved to sit up.

"Go slowly, hmm?"

"You are still a mystery to me, John Watson. Tonight, I realised how much you've become a part of me. I felt you there, even though I knew you weren't with me - let me finish. I know you've been hiding something from me the last couple of days, and I was afraid it meant you wanted to leave me, but -"

"When I went downstairs, I found some letters, letters never sent, from H to W. I wasn't sure whether or not to read them, but after a few hours, okay, it was fifteen minutes, I couldn't not read them. It was you, him, writing to his Watson. I went to the library to try to find him, them, I wanted to be able to tell you their story, and as it was nearing Christmas -"

He blinked at John again, then carefully leaned forward enough to place a kiss on John's forehead, and whispered, "will you read me to sleep, John? Please?" John nodded as he carefully scooped Sherlock into his arms and carried him to bed.


	7. John - December

He undressed Sherlock carefully, brushing his lips over the rawness that would soon become bruises, then settled him under the duvet, and moved the chair close to the side of the bed, taking Sherlock's hand into his. 

"The first letter is from 1887, February. It seems they met the last week of January, at Bart's. Watson had been invalided out of the military, and was in search of cheaper lodging. Within weeks of their meeting, Holmes was already writing letters..."

 

February 1887 -

W -

I would not consider myself a coward, and yet, I am afraid to tell you of my heart, not because of what the courts and polite society would make of that heart, but because I would rather love you in silence than risk losing your friendship, the partnership I already take for granted. I am not accustomed to allowing my mind to consider how your eyes twinkle in amusement at me, as I make some trifling observations about our latest client, even as our rooms are trapped in the chill of winter, your muffled chuckle as you continue scribbling, sends warmth to my cheeks and my most private thoughts. To be honest, I have only loved once, and it was but a trifling compared to what I feel for you, and that love was not returned, so I find myself a bit at sea. Perhaps, one day I will be brave enough to share these with you, but I do fear already, that one day, your heart will be captured by one of the fairer sex, and she will be most fortunate, for I have not yet met a kinder, wiser or braver soul than yourself. 

Ever yours, H

 

John watched as Sherlock's eyes fluttered closed, and his breathing changed, letting him know he was nearly asleep. "I could never give you up so easily, John." Sherlock tightened his grip on John's hand for a moment, then relaxed as sleep overtook him.

John hoped his counterpart had known of his flat mate's admiration, and had found some way to soften the heartache. He couldn't imagine not letting Sherlock know of his love, in some small way, even under watchful eyes. He realised how fortunate they were to be living in a time where they could love openly, even marry if they chose. Perhaps one day... 'Getting ahead of yourself, lad, aren't ya now?' He could imagine his nan whispering at his ear, and yet he knew she would have understood,'love is love, sweet boy,' she would have said and she would have seen it even before they had. He set the alarm on his phone for two hours, then silently climbed into bed next to Sherlock, closed his eyes and he, too was soon fast asleep.


	8. Sherlock - December

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still fumbling around on a tablet...

"Sherlock."

"Hmm?" He opened his eyes carefully to find John searching his face. 

"How's your head?"

"I've a bit of a headache - wait. Stay, with me. If you had been W, would you have seen, known how H felt? Would you have, I don't know, would you have stayed, had you known?"

"I hope I would have been brave enough to know and return his love, even then. It's easy for me to say that, looking back, and knowing what we have here and now, but yes, I would have stayed. On a less romantic note, do you need the loo?"

He grinned sheepishly at him. "Please?"

 

March 1887 -

W -

Bored beyond endurance, even my experiments seem tedious today, oh, but for a case, what would I give? Yet, you sit there, so unperturbed, so calm, as you read your book, I wonder what you would do if I stood, then knelt at your feet and laid a trembling hand on your knee? Would you even stop reading? Would you lift your eyes and look into mine, and see what love they hold for you? Would you recognise it as love, or simply temperament? As often as I have decried all emotion, sentiment, especially love as nothing more than irritations to be swatted away like the common house fly, how could you take any declaration from me seriously? So instead, I pluck at my poor ill-used violin until you throw your book away from you, and suggest a walk to the park. I suppose to walk alongside you as the snow begins to fall will have to be enough. How I long to be able to reach out for your hand as courting couples are allowed; you speak of a memory of Afghanistan, and I am transported to the heat and sand even as the cold wind picks up and pulls at my hat, I shiver not from the cold, but from the images you lay before me, not of war, but of a night sky full of stars, brighter and clearer than I shall ever see with my own eyes. As you fall into silence, I suggest a late supper, you nod your agreement, and you shove your hands into your pockets as we turn back. It is enough, and yet, I still long...

\- H

 

John gathered him into his arms, pressing a light kiss to his lips as he once more tumbled into sleep. "I'll be here when you wake, love."


	9. John - December

When he woke again, John was there, holding him in his arms. He thought of H, and wondered what it must have been like for him not to have this, this certainty of returned love. John seemed to have understood his thoughts and kissed his hair gingerly. His head was still throbbing, all he wanted to do was to sleep in John's arms, and to stop thinking about anything else. How odd, he considered, how simple his life had become over the last six months; he had never believed there would be someone who would choose him over anyone else, and to stay -

"I called the surgery, let them know I was needed at home for the next couple of days."

"You shouldn't have -"

"I wanted to, and they knew you would always be my first priority when they took me on -" Sherlock turned his head to look up into John's smiling face, and wondered, not for the first time, as he reached up to lay his hand along John's jaw, how he deserved the man who closed his eyes at the touch, then moved just enough so he could place a kiss to Sherlock's wrist, over the ancient and faded scars. "I want to be here, with you. Do you want to try some toast or -?"

"Can we just stay here for a little while longer?"

John nodded, and kissed his wrist once more, then folded around him again. He should feel overwhelmed by the closeness, from the heat in John's eyes, but he only felt a deep sense of calm as closed his eyes again, and after a few moments was sound asleep.

 

April 1887 -

Spring has returned with a vengeance, I think you prefer the dry heat of Afghanistan, to our April showers, as you grumble at the morning edition, and a bit of sneezing overtakes you again. I wish I could distract you with a case, but the criminal classes seem to be under the weather as well... but, wait, there is the sound of a hansom, it is slowing and yes, it is stopping... a bit of relief and none too soon.


	10. Sherlock - December

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My new laptop is supposed to be arriving tomorrow, which also happens to be BC's 42nd birthday... Hmmm we all know how we feel about coincidences... Anywho, hopefully this will be my last chapter composed on a tablet...

He had lost track of time when John kissed his cheek and whispered something about tea and toast, then slipped from his arms and quietly left their room. He tried to focus on the sounds he should have heard, sirens and car horns, evidence of other people out in the world outside his window.

"It's been snowing. I haven't seen this much snow since I was a kid. There are cars stuck everywhere, it's a mess out there." Sherlock watched as he placed a mug of tea and a plate of toast on the table, then knelt by the bed. "Need some help sitting up?" 

"Please."

John nodded as he stood, then carefully wrapped himself around Sherlock and pulled him up to a seated position, then adjusted his pillows for him. He kissed his forehead and drew back as he heard a snort. "What?"

"Just not used to someone fussing over me." He felt his face warm as John kissed him lightly, then handed him his tea. 

"I don't mind fussing over you, I like taking care of you." John turned away, then got to his feet.

Sherlock reached for his arm, and murmured shyly, "I know. I like it, too. I, uhm, I did order you some things for Christmas, they won't be anything like what you've given me, and I'm not sure if they will even get here, with the snow and all, I just - I wanted you to have something, I'm still learning how to do this."

John turned back and looked at him. "This?"

"Us. It's been six months, and at times it feels like it's only been ten minutes, other times, it feels like I've known you -"

"Forever." John lifted Sherlock's fingers to his lips and smiled against his bruised knuckles. "I'm going to get my tea, and I'll be right back, yeah?"

Sherlock smiled back at him, then watched him leave the room. He picked up the piece of toast and closed his eyes. He couldn't remember when something smelled so good.

John chuckled from the doorway. "You must be starving, just take it easy for a bit. Luckily I did a bit of shopping a couple of days ago, so we are stocked up for a few days."

Sherlock put his tea down, then patted the space next to him. "Since we don't have anywhere to be, will you read me another letter, please? A happy one?"

John nodded and handed Sherlock his tea as he climbed into bed, then picked a letter from the book and clearer his throat. "This is my favourite one."

 

December 1910 -

My dearest -

I have no need of gifts this Christmas, as I watch you settle once more into your chair in front of the fire, book in hand. I had finally summoned the courage to tell you of my plans for the spring, to retire to the cottage I have long dreamed of, ever since, well, you know all too well, my dear friend, of the time we do not speak of, and I held my breath as you knelt before me and took my hand in yours, and pressed it to your cheek, as you asked if you could be part of that dream. I think I blinked at you for a long moment, and you were afraid you had overstepped, but I managed to shake my head, then nod, even as tears began to roll down my cheeks. I think you were afraid you had broken me, until you understood everything I could not tell you in all these years...

"He never saw these?" Sherlock whispered. "He didn't know, all that time, John. I don't know if I could have - they were happy though, they had time, tell me they had time."

"Yes, love, they had time."


	11. January 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Since it is BC's 42nd birthday.... A birthday in two timelines...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... Another delay on my laptop... Sigh.

January 6, 1911

My heart - 

How I've longed to be able to write plainly of my love for you, and now, of all days, on the anniversary of the day of your birth, words fail me. I should have ready expressions that leap to the page easily, and yet, now that I know you long to know, long for evidence of feeling that matches your own, I find all the words that come to mind seem so insignificant, too small for your perusal. You have always accused me of being a bit of a romantic when it comes to recording our adventures, perhaps all along I have been trying in my own inadequate way, to tell you of my enduring admiration, love and respect for you. 

From the moment we met, I felt that I knew you better than I knew myself, and yet, somehow, you kept your love safely hidden away, from the prying eyes of those who would choose to see it as something less than honourable. I know of no greater honour than to be the one who is permitted to love you and to be loved by you.

Oh love, my own true love, I do wish, how I wish, I had told you of the depth of my feeling for you years ago, perhaps we would have had years of nights as the one we had last night, when I finally, finally took you into my bed, now our bed - you must know, I hope you know, no one has ever taught me love as you did in your hesitant and shy way, you made me feel treasured, even more precious than any jewel or unsolvable puzzle - the wonder in your eyes as you shivered in my arms, as if you were still unsure of my love, even after, you needed tangible proof that you can carry on your person, perhaps in your pocket until the words became too faded, but you will remember, won't you? My stumbling, awkward attempt to write of the joy that has overtaken the nightmares of the past. The idea that you, my brilliant, glorious star, have entrusted me to take care of your heart, is astonishing, I shall do my best to keep it and you safe from harm. There is only you.

A very happy birthday, my love,

\- J

 

January 6, 2010 -

Sherlock -

I tried to come up with a suitable present that would tell you everything I feel for you. I fear you will never know the completeness and certitude of my love for you, but I will try my best to tell you, as I ask you to wear my dog tags over your heart, a symbol of the time and distance we have traveled separately only to end up together again, we have survived so many dark times, even death, to reach this place once more. I am only sorry it took so long for my heart to find yours, and that our journeys were so difficult. I hope you know, your heart is safe in my hands.

I wish you a very happy birthday, my most beloved friend, lover and partner in all things.

Yours, always,

\- John

 

John laid his hand over his dog tags, that now rested over Sherlock's heart, and smiled, as he realized he had found a way to render his love speechless. 

"Happy Birthday, my love."


	12. Evidence - February

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angst... a discussion of Reichenbach...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back on a real keyboard, finally... whew...

Sherlock wanted to take each letter that John had given him at Christmas, and create a wall of well, evidence, of these men who had come before them, whether they had some 'connection' to them or not, it was hard to believe there wasn't at least some ancestral link involved, but he couldn't make them into a case, something to be analyzed and broken down, just as he couldn't do it to what he had with John.

Yes, he needed to know who they were, everything about them, but over the last two months, their story became more like the bedtime stories his father would read to him, giving each character their own voice, yes, they had been real people, but to Sherlock they were more than just bits of data, he needed to know how the man who came before him managed to keep his love to himself for so long. He had read and reread each letter until he believed he knew the man who had written them, he could imagine the man who sat by their fire lost in thought as he waited for the arrival of his friend... friend. He looked over at John who was stirring something on the stove, oh. Dinner, right. He got to his feet and walked into the kitchen, then waited for John to glance up at him.

"What?" John tried to read the expression on Sherlock's face, but he had learned just to ask, as Sherlock had slowly taught himself to leave his deductions at the door, much as he would hang up his coat and scarf, and become less 'on' and more John's partner, who tried to see and listen more from love, rather than dazzle John with his insights.

"I can't imagine not being able to tell you how I feel about you."

John nodded and switched off the burner, and turned to face him. "You know, I do know how you feel about me, even when you don't say anything. I think he knew. Deep down, he had to know, Sherlock."

"But how could he marry someone else, as he did, if he knew, if he felt anything like what Holmes felt for him?"

"I don't know, love. Expectations? Perhaps he loved her too, fear can be an overwhelming obstacle, even for the bravest and wisest of men. He was a GP, he had a practice, I suppose, he could have given it up and lived all those years with Holmes, but what of that time when -"

Sherlock shook his head. "There will never be a time when I could do that to you. Not ever."

"I don't know. It sounded like he had little choice, yes, it would have been kinder if he had let Watson know that he was still alive in those three years, but I do understand if he felt the person he loved most was safer without him, and he may have felt abandoned when Watson married, and left him to his own devices, I can see how someone of his intellect would make that choice, to take those years and explore the world on his own, become other people, who didn't have a claim on them, and for him, it may have seemed that Watson had released him when he chose to marry the Morstan woman. I think I know you well enough that you wouldn't be able to hide something like that from me. But, like I said, fear can sometimes overtake even the strongest of loves."

Sherlock laid his hands on John's face and gazed down into his eyes. "Do you believe me when I tell you that I will never, ever choose to leave you behind, not ever."

John whispered, "Yes, love, I do believe you. I do."

 

1891 -

My dear Watson -

If there was any other way to end Moriarty, I would have found it, but I do not see any options left open to me, other than making sure Professor Moriarty is no longer a blight on our fair city, on my own. I do not think it likely I will ever gaze upon your face again, just know, my dear friend, your friendship over these last few years has meant everything to me. Return to London, and let those concerned know that his reign of fear is over. My loss is not so great a thing. I wish you only the best of everything, my brother in arms, my dear Boswell, do not attempt to search for me, it would be far too treacherous. I ask but one thing, do not forget your friend too soon? 

One who held you in highest regard, always,

\- Holmes.


	13. Valentine's Day

February 1912, Sussex -

 

My dear John - 

 

I have written you many letters over the years, most you have never seen, and I should not want you to, as you would see the man I was then, ignorant of your love, and I would not want you to know him. I, who sees all, did not understand, perhaps it was simple fear that kept me from looking at you closely enough. Now, I get to look all I wish, and touch you without fear, knowing you return my love. I spend so many nights watching you as you sleep, perhaps you know, perhaps you sense my eyes cataloguing you. 

This morning, which happens to be Valentine's Day, yes, you will laugh that I would delete the workings of the solar system, yet keep the fact of a celebration of a martyred saint, no, I know, these days it's an excuse to gift flowers or sweets - this morning, I watched as you opened your eyes and smiled at me, then reached out and touched my lips with your finger, your lips followed that finger, and you pressed close against me, taking me into your arms... mornings are still astonishing to me, even after all this time, over a year of such mornings, of waking next to you, that I am the first thing you see as you open your eyes, I am the first thing you touch, with your eyes, your mouth, your body, your love - this I will never take for granted, not ever, I hope you know that, my love.

Today, I will putter as I do, as I wait for our second spring here to arrive, you will write, and then I will interrupt you, and offer you my hand, and take you into our bed again, even if it is just to rest, as we are not young men any longer, and our past adventures are catching up to us, but you will look at me in that way you have, and I will nod, and you will run your strong, gentle fingers over me....

 

February 14, 2010, London -

 

Sherlock -

I woke up this morning, to find you still fast asleep at my side. I thought of getting up, making tea and an elaborate breakfast for you, but instead, I remained in bed and watched you sleep, I wanted to reach out and trace the crinkles at the corners of your eyes, the fullness of your lips, and place a kiss over that mole on your neck, but I wanted to watch you sleep more. You slept for another hour, then blinked at me, and smiled, that smile that belongs to me alone, and pulled me into your arms, kissed my hair and whispered that you loved me, then you fell asleep again, and I followed after you. 

There is no place I want to be, other than by your side, I hope by now that you know this, it is as much a fact as the solar system, but I hope you will not delete it. If you ever come to doubt it, look into my eyes, love, and you will know. 

I could write pages telling you of my love, but today, especially today, I'd rather spend the day showing you, then take you to Angelo's and feed you tiramisu, then walk you home again, and spend the rest of the night making love to you, until once again, you fall asleep in my arms. 

Yours, always, forever and longer -

John.


	14. March

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> for NovaNara, my birthday sister <3 xoxoxox 
> 
> My canon birthdate for John is March 31st.

March 31 2010 -

 

John -

I wanted to do something special for you today, and I spent the last couple of weeks trying to find the perfect gift for you...

 

"It's too bad the power went out, hmmm?" 

John sighed as he sank down deeper into the gently scented bubbles, feeling Sherlock's fingers work out the knots from his shoulders. "Yeahhhh, too bad."

"I had plans... I was going to cook you dinner... and we were going to watch movies..."

"You were actually going to sit and watch with me?" John looked up into Sherlock's eyes in surprise.

"I bought you a collection of Monty Python movies, they are somewhat tolerable..." Sherlock kissed the tip of John's nose and grinned down at him.

 

... I am still learning to trust that you love me, that I am enough for you. Just know you are everything, to me, not in the creepy, stalker type of everything, but the good kind.

Happy 40th birthday, John.

\- Sherlock 

 

March 31 189 -

 

Dear John -

Once again, we are sitting in front of a fire, smoking our pipes after another case successfully brought to its conclusion. There were nights during my time abroad when I let my thoughts visit our rooms, and I wondered if I'd ever find myself sitting with you in the same way again. I will tell you of my travels, of the people you would find of interest, but never what I suffered in that time. I know you have questions, my dear friend, but you know me well enough to know that I can never tell you what you believe you want to know. All that you need know is that I would do anything for you, but I recognise that my actions of the recent years have caused you pain, even though you rarely remind me of that time, there are moments when I know you are keeping watch over me, as if afraid that I may disappear once more... a week ago, I recalled that your birthday was fast approaching, and I wanted to find you something, just a small thing, a keepsake, that you could look upon, and perhaps think of me. To see you holding the pipe in your hand tonight, and the delight in your eyes as you examined it closely, made my heart leap, I wondered that it didn't jump from my chest -

 

"Holmes, it is exquisite. I don't remember receiving a finer gift, my friend."

"You are quite welcome, my dear Watson, when I saw it, I knew it belonged in your hands. Happy birthday, John."

"Since when -?"

"Hmmm?"

"Nothing." John lit his pipe and watched as his friend turned away, covering his mouth as if trying to stifle a cough, but could see the traces of a smile in his eyes. "Nothing at all."


	15. Sherlock - April

"He's going to be fine." Lestrade dropped into the chair next to Sherlock and closed his eyes. 

"They won't let me see him. I'm not 'family.'"

"Bloody hell." Lestrade shot to his feet and stalked to the nurse's station.

Sherlock watched in stunned silence as Lestrade read the nurse the riot act, then walked back over to the chairs. "You can see him now, told them you were going to propose the night he was hurt."

Sherlock stared at him for a long moment, then whispered, "how did you know?"

Lestrade chuckled. "You aren't the only one who can read people."

"Gimme."

"You were nervous, and distracted, wanted to be elsewhere..."

"And...?"

"You were wearing, are still wearing his favourite shirt..."

"So?" Sherlock shrugged and crossed his arms.

"You kept checking your watch, which you never do on a case, then you would look over at John and smile, and you kept patting your pocket, making sure -"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, then dug in his pocket and held out a black box. "Tell me what you think."

Lestrade yawned and shook his head. "Go on, go sit with him, be there when he wakes up. And no, I don't think it's too soon to ask him, and last but not least, it was not your fault that he got hurt."

"If I hadn't -" Sherlock started.

"Not your fault. Go be with him, let him know you are there. I'm not going anywhere -"

Sherlock got to his feet slowly, then turned to look at his friend. "Go home - hell. Thanks, Greg, for, you know - "

"Go on...."

Sherlock nodded, then headed down the hallway.

 

April 189 -

I still don't know why you did it. Why you moved in front of me, why you protected me, why? Why do you think my life is more important than your own? I watch as you open your eyes, and you ask if I'm alright. And I nod. You smile, and pat my hand. As your eyes drift closed again, I wish I could pick up your hand and hold it to my lips, and tell you....

 

"Hey."

"Hey, yourself." Sherlock grinned at him, then picked up his hand and held it to his lips, and closed his eyes. "You can't - promise me, just don't..."

"Marry me."

"Wait... wha-?"

"The ring was in my pants pocket..."

Sherlock blinked at him, then rolled his eyes, and sighed. "You had put on that jumper, the one I gave you at Christmas, and you were fidgety on the way to the crime scene, kept looking at your watch..." He reached into his pocket and pulled out the box again. "Not quite the romantic setting I was hoping for, but will you -"

John whispered, "yes, course I will, but -"

"But?"

"But, I will always do whatever is necessary to make sure you make it back to Baker Street in one piece."

"John."

"Shhh... Come up here, please, hold me while I sleep?"

Sherlock nodded and climbed into the bed, then kissed John's forehead and sighed as John rested his head against his shoulder. "I love you."

"Love you, too..."


	16. Recovery - April

April 189 -

I spent last evening sitting at your bedside, simply observing you, noting every detail; the length of your lashes, the fullness of your bottom lip and I watched as you struggled against a dream; you whispered my name, and without thinking, I laid my hand over yours and your breathing seemed to ease at my touch. I closed my eyes and when I opened them again, you were smiling at me, a question in your eyes. I wanted to tell you everything, tell you so you understood...

 

Sherlock started at John's fingers in his hair, he had fallen asleep in the chair again while reading, no, not really reading. He couldn't focus on the words when John was so still in their bed. He had been allowed to come home earlier than the doctors wanted with a nudge from Mycroft, Sherlock was positive of that, but for once he wasn't offended by the interference, maybe he should send a cake... "Morning. Hungry?"

John shook his head, then patted the space next to him. "Please?"

Sherlock nodded, shrugged out of his robe, then climbed into bed, and sighed as John rested his head on his shoulder. "How's the pain today?"

"Not so bad."

"You'll tell me if -" he bit his lip, unable to finish the sentence.

"Honestly?"

"Hmm."

"Hurts like hell."

"John."

John pushed up on one shoulder with a groan and looked down into Sherlock's eyes. "I know what you must be thinking."

Sherlock shook his head, then kissed him gently. "No. You don't."

"You think I'll - "

"Nope."

"I won't. I promise."

"John. Stop. You don't have to make me promises."

"But -"

"You aren't alone. I'm here, and I know, John. I know what it's like to want to be numb, to stop thinking, stop feeling the pain. Just know I'm here. You can tell me anything, everything, and I won't leave you."

"You can't promise me that."

"Yes. I can, and I do. Right now, you need your pain meds, and then I'll make you breakfast, and you will eat some of it, and then we'll -"

John placed a finger on Sherlock's lips and looked into his eyes, then whispered, "put on that movie I fell asleep half way through last night."

"We'll do anything you want."

"Anything?"

"Within reason."

"Within reason?"

Sherlock nodded, then kissed his forehead and paused. "You believe me?"

John drew in a sharp breath, then pulled Sherlock closer. "Yes. Yes, I believe you. I believe in you. I believe in us."

 

... you let me help you sit up, and then I put your cup of tea to your lips... your fingers covered mine lightly, and for a moment, time stood still...


	17. Late April

"You're bored."

"Hmm? Nope."

"Sherlock... you've gone two weeks without a case. You can't tell me that being here with me is enough."

Sherlock looked up from the book he was reading and rolled his eyes. "I could spend the rest of my life with you in this bed, and I'd never get bored."

"You're ridiculous."

"I may be, but you know it's true."

"Idiot."

"Go back to sleep, and when you wake up, we'll order some take away, yeah?"

John nodded and settled against Sherlock's shoulder, closing his eyes as Sherlock began to read again.

 

April 189- 

Over the last two weeks, I have found that you loathe boredom and inactivity as much as I do; today you convinced me you were strong enough to venture outside, though I knew you struggled to get dressed, and you were breathing heavily as we made our way down the stairs, I knew the boredom was more dangerous to your health than taking a brief walk. 

The day was pleasant, not a cloud in the sky, and for once the humidity was negligible, a perfect day. I slowed my pace to match yours and offered you my arm, but you shrugged me off kindly. There are days when you call me stubborn, and I do admit to it, though you have often proven yourself to be just as iron-willed and obstinate in your own way. Today was no exception, and yet, as we sat down in the closest tea shop, I saw the tiniest hint of pain in your eyes, I know what it meant for you to let me see it. I do, honestly.

I ordered tea and sandwiches, making sure you ate at least half a sandwich, and drank down a cup of tea. Your eyes drifted down to your knee as you rolled your shoulder and winced slightly, then you began to tell me another tale of Afghanistan. You never tell me of your dark days, but of those moments which bring light to your eyes, and the corners of your mouth turn up ever so slightly, of people you helped; of scents, sounds and sights I will never see, but through your words I feel as if I were by your side. You clear your throat and catch my eye, and I know you once more long for your bed. I pay our bill, and return to our table, offering you my arm, and this time, you take it gratefully, and allow me to help you to your feet. I know it is but a small gesture, but it is enough for now, it is more than I thought I would ever share with you, a moment of faith and grace...

 

... as I help you into bed, you look up at me and once again, I am filled with hope that one day you will allow me to tell of my love for you, but I know it is not yet time...

 

Sherlock sets the letter aside and climbs into bed, smiling to himself as John instinctively curls around him, then settles into sleep once more.


	18. July

"What is it?"

"What is what?" 

"You aren't here on a case, I know you just finished one up yesterday. You brought me coffee and a roll..."

"Fine. It's our one year anniversary this week."

"A whole year? Already?"

Sherlock looked up from the microscope and crossed his arms at Molly. "You don't have to act so surprised."

Molly glanced over at him and rolled her eyes at him. "Sherlock."

"You didn't think he'd stay."

"That's not true. I admit, I am a bit surprised. Well, your track record speaks for itself. I mean, before John, you had no track record -"

Sherlock shrugged and looked down at his feet and was silent for a long moment. "I'm just as surprised as you are, probably more. I kept expecting him to be gone one morning, but he stayed, and then he got hurt because of me -"

"He didn't get hurt because of you. He got hurt because the arsehole pulled a gun."

"He moved in front of me, Molly. If he hadn't - I worked out the trajectory - he saved my life. I want to do something for him, but I don't know what I can do to tell him how important he is to me."

"He knows, Sherlock. Where is your better half anyway?"

"Meeting."

"He still goes?"

Sherlock nodded. "Once or twice a week, sometimes more if he's not sleeping well."

"You are good for him, you know?"

Sherlock shrugged again and dropped onto the stool, then played with the focus on the microscope. "I just wish I was sure -"

"Sure about what?"

"It's ridiculous. I mean, I know how he feels about me, and how I feel about him, but it's like you said, I don't have any experience with this kind of thing, relationships -"

"You're doing fine."

Sherlock looked up at her and gave her a crooked half-smile. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

 

"Morning. My name is John, and I am an addict."

"Hullo, John."

"It's been a year this week, tomorrow, in fact, that I came here for a meeting. I almost didn't come here that day, but I'm lucky I did. That day I met the person who changed my life. I know, it sounds ridiculous. Before that day, I didn't believe - I didn't think that there was someone who could be there for me, no matter what, but he keeps proving me wrong, every single day. It took me a while before I realised he wasn't going anywhere, and I realised how much I wanted to stay clean for him, but it wasn't just for him. I wanted to stay clean for me, not because I thought he'd leave if I relapsed, but because I didn't want to be numb anymore, I wanted to feel everything, no matter how much it hurt, I wanted to be there, as I am; and he accepted me, with all of my flaws. Now, it's a year later, and we are still together. I guess that's all I wanted to say today. Thanks."

"Thank you, John."

 

July 2010

 

It's a year tomorrow that we met again, John. I still don't know how or why we've been given this chance, and honestly, I'm still a bit wary of the happiness that I've been given. But, I trust you. I trust us, more than I've ever trusted anything or anyone in my life. I know that may seem a small thing, but it is everything to me. I look at the dog tags that you gave me, the ring on my finger and I know my heart is safe. Safe with you. I wish I had the words that could tell you what our life means to me. I think you know, but I wish I were eloquent enough to tell you everything that I want you to know.

Your presence in my life has changed me, and yet you love me as I am. I'm still trying to work that out, so it makes sense, but there are some things that are just meant to be mysteries. Like you. You fill in those places that I thought would never be filled. I no longer walk this planet alone, because of you, because you chose me. Because you keep choosing me. Know that I will always choose you over anyone or anything else, always.

I love you, John.

-Sherlock


	19. August

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for scrub456

Sussex   
1915

 

My Dearest -

I watch you, watch over you, as you fret over the headlines, and I see you limp more often, you must know you have given enough, my love. I know you. The soldier in you wishes to be part of the mess, but you know, I know you do, it is not your battle to fight any longer.

It is raining again, as it does, and you ask if I want my tea. You always seem to know somehow, even now, it surprises me sometimes. I must have a tell, something in my face, I suppose, that lets you know what I need. I almost offer to make it today, but you have been so still today, staring out the window without a word, so I make you push up out of your well-worn chair and walk slowly into our kitchen to put on the kettle, and you unwrap the new loaf that Mrs.- oh, what is her name? She seems to accept her odd neighbors (yes, I mean us, my dear, even in older age, we are still a bit odd.) always making us the odd loaf when she bakes. I think you remind her of her late husband or perhaps a son, it is for you she bakes, you know, yes, it is. She doesn't mind me, but she tuts at you, worries that you are losing weight. I do try, you know, to make sure you eat, as you used to do for me back at Baker Street, how long ago that seems now. You turn and look at me, and shake your head. I think there are some moments when you are surprised to find me there, and you are afraid to ask me if I'm real, not just a figment of your imagination. You turn back and spread honey on my bread, your own strawberry preserves on your slab, and you ask me to read you a bit of what I'm writing.

How do you always know? I don't try to hide it from you, this obsessive need to write to you to give you something real, something tangible, of my vague attempt to let you know I think of you always, love you always. You smile and shrug as I hesitate and then the kettle is ready, and you startle as I begin to read to you...

 

August 2010

 

S -

Sorry it's taken me so long to respond to your letter, I've been through so many drafts of this, and you know me, I always need to be sure I'm using the right word. I'm not used to writing with a pen any longer, but the computer feels wrong for this sort of thing.

I keep wondering at the idea that you, a little over a year ago now, found me, plucked me out of the grayness I had been set adrift in for so long. Some of it, of my own making, my own failures and weaknesses, and yet, you looked past all that, or maybe, it was that you saw all of it, and recognised - damn, I'm making a mess of this, but I need you to know everything I can't say to you. I know you took a chance on me that day, and you take that same chance every day, to be there when I wake up in the morning, even when you are working on a case, you are there waiting for me, I'm still not sure what you find so mysterious about me, there's nothing special about me. 

You say that I fill in those empty bits that you have, you do the same for me, and more than that, you allow me to breathe easier. That's all, and yet, it's simply everything. Do you know? You are everything, to me. I wonder if you know that?

 

All my love, 

John.


End file.
